Marjorie and Poppy sat together on a bench in the graveyard of St Bride’s, a dour yew tree hunched above them. The photographs were laid out between them.
“So,” said Poppy, “let me see if I’ve got this straight. A Russian family – known for its reformist sympathies – was murdered during the Russian Revolution. You believe the Bolsheviks did it, but they say it was one of our spies, a woman posing as a nanny. They did this, you believe, because they were paranoid about British interference with the Russian royal family. Which turned out to be unfounded, because in the end our King George failed to send anyone to rescue them and in fact denied them asylum when they first asked.”
Marjorie took a sharp intake of breath. “Well, I don’t want to criticise the royal family …”
“Of course not,” said Poppy, wishing that more people would. She took a deep breath and pushed the critical thoughts about the failings of the royals out of her mind. “So, where is this Ruth Broadwood?”
Marjorie picked an autumn leaf off the bench and pressed it between her gloved palms. “Well, no one knows for sure. But we suspect she is with the youngest member of the Andreiovich family – the girl Anya, who will now be about nine. She was the only member of the family not found at the house. We think she and Miss Broadwood managed to escape and – if they’re still alive – are on the run.”
Poppy touched the face of the little cherub in the photograph, imagining what she would look like five years on from when her family were murdered, and then now, three years after that, if she were still alive. Then she touched the barrel-chest of the father – Count Andreiovich – and examined his clean-shaven face bracketed by impressive mutton-chop sideburns. He had the same dark eyes as his daughter and a mouth that although firmly set for the photograph had a slight upturn at the corners, suggesting a man who easily laughed. The fairer boys appeared to take after their mother, a beautiful woman in the prime of her life. But they were all gone. Or were they?
“What about him? The count. You didn’t list him among the dead.”
Marjorie let the leaf fall to the ground and land in a small puddle on the churchyard path. It floated on the trapped water. “No. Count Andreiovich was not killed with the family. He was on the Western Front, as far as we know, when it happened. At least we think he was. We lost track of him in 1916.”
A chill wind had picked up and was playing with the churchyard leaves. Poppy pulled up the collar of her turquoise mackintosh to meet the rim of her cloche hat. “You lost track of him? Why were you keeping track of him in the first place?”
Marjorie cleared her throat and straightened her posture on the bench. “Well, it was before my time at the Home Office, but I believe it was because we hoped he might work for us.”
“Another spy?” Poppy tried to keep the delight out of her voice. Oh, this was turning out to be more exciting than a detective novel.
“Not exactly, no. He had reformist sympathies and we thought we might be able to use him to influence the tsar. The writing was on the wall for the regime if it didn’t change; we were hoping to avoid what happened in 1917. But as it turned out, the tsar and tsarina dug in their heels in the face of criticism. If they’d listened to the likes of Andreiovich instead of Rasputin, things might have turned out very differently in Russia.”
Poppy absorbed this. She wondered if things would have been different, or whether the Bolshevik Revolution was inevitable. Which reminded her again of Andrei Nogovski. “So what has any of this to do with Andrei Nogovski?”
Marjorie looked to the left and right, as if checking for eavesdroppers. There was only an elderly woman tossing chunks of bread to a flock of gathering pigeons. “I’ll get to him in a minute. But first I need to tell you how we think all this fits in with the murder of Princess Selena.” Two of the birds started squabbling over a crust. The old woman flicked her scarf at them. They flew off and dropped the bread, which was picked up by an opportunistic youngster that flapped its wings in victory.
Poppy was assailed by a memory of the actress dead on her dressing-room couch. Yes, she mustn’t forget in all this titillating intrigue that there was a dead woman at the centre of it. “I assume Selena was connected with the Andreioviches in some way.”
“You assume correctly,” confirmed Marjorie. “Selena was sort of a double agent.”
“Sort of?” asked Poppy, trying to reconcile the silliness of the dead princess with the image of an international spy.
“Yes, sort of. She had Bolshevik friends from her days in Paris.”
Poppy remembered the photograph of Selena with Vladimir Lenin in Paris. It was also taken around 1912, if she remembered correctly.
“Yes, I know,” said Poppy.
Marjorie raised a curious eyebrow, suggesting she was surprised that Poppy knew anything about it at all. Poppy was slightly miffed, but let it pass.
“But Selena, being Selena,” continued Marjorie, “did not really know what it was all about. Her family realised this and did not take her pseudo-socialist views too seriously. Both sides, it seems, tried to play her. The royals tried to get information out of her about developments in Bolshevik circles; the Bolshies used her to get intel on the royals. Fortunately for us, because she was such a renowned gossip, neither side could trust her and just used her to spread misinformation.”
“How do you know all this?” asked Poppy.
Marjorie stamped her foot to chase away a pigeon that was edging towards her. “We – the Home Office – had informers. One of them was Ruth Broadwood. She sent us information while she was inside the Winter Palace in St Petersburg. Then again when she was with the Andreioviches in Moscow. As I said, we lost track of the count in 1916. We never knew, though, whether he had died or had decided that blood was thicker than water and gone on some secret mission for his cousin the tsar. We were hoping Ruth would be able to find out.”
“Did she?” asked Poppy.
Marjorie checked her watch. “No. She didn’t. It seemed that the countess was just as much in the dark as we were. In fact, she agreed to do something, very foolishly, in order to get some information out of the tsar. She believed Nicholas knew where her husband was. Whether he did or didn’t, we don’t know. But she agreed to become a treasure-keeper in return for information on her husband’s whereabouts.”
Poppy’s ears pricked at the familiar term: a treasure-keeper. That’s what Selena had claimed to be. The rest of the royals, it seemed, thought she was just a simple thief. Was she? Poppy remembered the information in the Jazz File about the missing necklace in Paris. Was that just a coincidence? She decided not to mention it to Marjorie.
“Look, Poppy, time’s getting on. So let me wrap this up. Very quickly: Selena took a Fabergé egg to Sofia Andreiovich for safe keeping on behalf of the tsarina. Ruth Broadwood sent a despatch to us to say that she believed the egg contained a key and that the key opened another egg that held very sensitive information that might expose our royal family to scandal.” She picked up the photograph of the dead family. “We believe the Andreiovich egg was stolen the night the family was murdered. And we believe the egg stolen at the exhibition last Saturday might have been the egg containing the information. Or at least the thief thought it might be.”
Poppy was stunned. So that was how it was all connected. “All right …” Poppy took a deep breath, then exhaled. “So, whoever it was who stole the egg has access to the information. What will they do with it?”
Marjorie raised her hand. “We don’t know if they do have the information yet. Firstly, there are nearly fifty Fabergé eggs in circulation. Any one of them could contain the secret. We think that perhaps the thief just assumed Selena’s egg would be the correct one. But we would be very surprised if the tsarina had entrusted something so sensitive to her silly cousin. We have been told that other eggs have been stolen too: in Paris, Venice and New York. We also don’t know if the Moscow thief even has the key. You see, we think Ruth Broadwood managed to get it from the egg first. And that’s why the Bolsheviks put out word that she had killed the family. So she could be hunted down.”
Poppy picked up the picture of the elderly spy. “But she hasn’t been found yet?”
“No. Not that we know of.”
“And are you certain it’s the Bolsheviks who are after her – and the eggs?”
Marjorie shrugged. “My colleagues seem to be. But let’s just say it serves their purpose to believe that – and to let others believe it too.”
Poppy looked at the older woman, surprised at her candour. She had all but admitted that the British government had a policy of smearing the communists. She let it pass. “But in reality it could have been someone else. Someone with another agenda.”
Marjorie nodded. “It’s possible, yes.”
The clock of St Bride’s struck half past nine. It was time she got to the newsroom. And time she got to the point. “So, Mrs Reynolds, let’s get to it. What has all this to do with Andrei Nogovski and Oscar?”
Marjorie started packing up the photographs. “Oscar, I’m not sure, and that’s what I’d like you to try and find out. He won’t tell me anything, but he likes you. And you seem to have a way of getting information out of people. Can I ask you, if you find anything out, to tell me about it first, before it gets into the papers?”
Poppy sucked in her breath. Was Marjorie trying to dictate to her how she did her job? She looked at the older woman and the worry lines around her eyes. No, that wasn’t what she was doing – at least not in relation to Oscar. She was just a mother, trying to protect her son. “I could, yes,” agreed Poppy. “But I will need something else in return.”
Marjorie’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. “Of course you will. You’re Rollo’s girl.”
Poppy shrugged, choosing to take the jibe as a compliment, not an insult. She opened her satchel and took out the greetings card that had been attached to the chocolate box in Selena’s dressing room. She held it between thumb and forefinger. “Tell me, Mrs Reynolds, does the Secret Service hold fingerprint files on leading figures and other ‘persons of interest’?”
Marjorie’s mouth relaxed into a full smile accompanied by a twinkle in her eyes. “The Secret Service, Miss Denby? Why, I have no idea what you mean. However, the Home Office may have access to certain files, yes. Why do you ask?”
Poppy passed her the card. “I need to know who, if anyone’s, fingerprints are on this card.”
Marjorie reached into her inner jacket pocket and took out a pair of spectacles, and perched them on her nose.
To Princess Selena Romanova Yusopova, the Old Vic Theatre. From a repentant fool.
She read the card and then looked at Poppy with unbridled surprise. “Have you been withholding evidence from the police, Poppy?”
Poppy flushed. Yes she had, was the truthful answer. And she would hand it over if her suspicions about who had written the card attached to the poisoned chocolates proved to be false. But if they weren’t … A shiver ran down her spine. Well, she would decide what to do then. For now though, she needed some information from Marjorie. And Marjorie needed her help to protect her son. It was an arrangement they both knew they would agree to. And they did.
Marjorie wrapped the card in a handkerchief and put it back with her spectacles into her pocket. Then she picked up her briefcase and readied to leave.
Poppy reached out her hand and took the older woman’s arm. “But Mrs Reynolds, you haven’t told me what all of this has to do with Andrei Nogovski.”
Marjorie again looked to right and left, then motioned for Poppy to walk with her. They headed out of the graveyard and through the gate of the church. Marjorie stopped and again looked around her. Poppy was beginning to get annoyed. Why couldn’t she just spit it out?
“Well, Mrs Reynolds?”
“You need to be careful, Poppy; you really do. He seems to be taking an interest in you, and I’m not entirely sure it’s all professional.”
“I –” interrupted Poppy.
Marjorie raised her hand. “Andrei Nogovski is a dangerous man. We believe he might have been responsible for the murder of the Andreiovich family. And the Romanovs – although their deaths have not been confirmed.”
Poppy felt the hairs rise at the back of her neck. “And Selena,” she whispered.
“Yes,” said Marjorie, reaching out and taking Poppy’s hand. “We think he might have done that too.”